Happier Living

The first business plan for my coaching practice was written on the back of a placemat while waiting for a lobster in an out-of-the-way shack in Maine. It was 2004, and I was on my way to visit some friends for a little R&R. I started thinking about my business and made a few notes:

– How much money I wanted to make in the next year

– How I would price my services to meet my income goals

– How many clients that meant I needed

– What kind of programs that meant I needed to offer

– What kind of additional training I would need

– How I would talk about my services

While I deconstructed a delicious lobster, I noodled on my plan. And when I removed the very attractive bib from around my neck and paid my check, I had a strong, workable direction for my business.

And I put that one-year plan in my purse and didn’t look at it again for six months.

Surprisingly, though, in that six months, I had done everything on my plan. Ahead of plan.

That’s right – I didn’t obsess, or over-think. I just executed.

Because the mere process of creating the plan – just putting my to-dos top of mind – catalyzed my action.

Now, there are those who detest plans. Maybe because they think plans are too rigid, don’t allow for creativity, aren’t that spontaneous, won’t accommodate serendipity.

[These people tend to – in Myers-Briggs talk – have a strong preference for “Perceiving”, the dear darlings. They value flexibility above all and will do anything in their power to preserve their ability to go with the flow. And I completely get it. That’s why I started this post of with the lobster story – just to show all those P people that planning can be easy. And tasty.]

A great plan, though, is not judged on how many tabs, tables and cross-references it includes.

A great plan is judged on how well it works.

With a plan, you know where to put your energy.

With a plan, you have a direction.

With a plan, you know what to say a whole-hearted “Yes!” to, and what to put in the “When There’s Time” file.

And planning can be easy. Easy-peasy.

Want to do one yourself? OK, take out a placemat-sized piece of paper. [lobster bib always optional.]

Answer these prompts:

– What do you want right now, more than anything?

– What’s your life going to be like when you get what you want? What’s it going to look like?

– Who are you when you’re at your best? What elements are in place? Which of these things already support getting what you want?

– What’s the first thing you need to do?

– Whose help do you need to do it?

– When can you start?

Focus, and put your best effort into these questions. When you’re done, you’ll realize that you have a plan, sugar.

Then fold it up and put it in your pocket.

And I’ll bet you, in six months, you’ve accomplished everything that needs doing.

Sure, you might get momentary cooperation. You might get temporary control. But over the long haul, you only change minds by listening with respect to the other person’s fears, hopes and priorities, and then clearly and kindly sharing your own point of view. And real understanding is generally not a one-and-done deal – it’s an on-going conversation that may need some space.

Yes, this approach takes time. But, know what? It works.

I’ve been called into so many dysfunctional offices where there’s some autocrat – could be at the C-level, could be at the office manager level, might even be at the receptionist level – whose bullying attitude and control issues threaten the entire success of the organization.

[I don’t particularly like these assignments but I take them because the relief people ultimately feel is profound.]

What I’ve learned is that most human beings – yes, bullies, too – really want to know, down deep, that their life has mattered. That all of their sacrifices and difficult choices have meant something. [And I did a webinar for the Harvard Business Review on bullies in the workplace in case you missed it.]

Given the technological advances of the last fifty years, it’s harder and harder for the average Joe to feel like it all matters. Any of us can be fired at any time for any reason – or no good reason at all. Employees have moved from being an organization’s best asset to becoming their largest liability, so cuts happen frequently and seemingly willy-nilly. I once worked with some executives downsized from an organization who, in its big company wisdom, decided to save money and boost profits by getting rid of every employee who’d been at the firm for more than fourteen years. In one fell swoop, the entire organizational memory was wiped clean.

Made zero sense to me, and all those let-go people had an existential crisis, wondering if all of those late nights, bad hotels, Sunday night planes and skipped birthday parties were worth it.

What’s missing today amongst the powers that be is an understanding that belonging is such a critical human need. When I start working with new clients, I ask them to do an exercise to list their top values. Nine times out of ten, people choose things like “being connected”, “belonging”, “being with”.

This is the reason folks stay late, work on weekends and say yes to travel that takes them away from their families – not because they’re getting paid, by and large, but because they care.

Belonging is often the way people feel like what they do matters.

Yesterday I had coffee with my old friend Tom, and we got on the subject of being hungry. Tom said, “You know, when you’re really hungry, you’ll eat anything. You don’t care what it is, you don’t care where it came from, you don’t care who’s serving it – you’ll eat it because you’re famished.” Wise man, my friend Tom is.

And it’s true. If you’re starved for belonging, you’ll quickly join any group that will have you as a member.

Their goals will become your goals. Their needs will become yours. Their aims and intentions will become yours.

Because they feed you.

That’s why shouting at folks in an attempt to persuade them doesn’t work. Because you’re shouting about policy or politics or faith or beliefs or performance and the other person is – in their heart of hearts – thinking about belonging. And what they might have to do so they won’t figuratively starve.

So if you find yourself wanting to shout down someone else, here’s what you do instead, whether you’re at an office, in a home, on the street, protesting, marching, gathering, singing, shopping or navigating rush hour: Listen. Invite someone to listen to you. Look them in the eye. Tell them why you believe what you do. Model open-mindedness. Find common ground. Include them.

Because shouting may get you attention for a minute but it rarely gets you the change you seek.

The more I live this life the more I am sure that in order to get anything I have to be willing to let some things go. Sometimes what I need to let go feels very precious – until I release it and realize that what shows up afterward is even better.

I often tell a parable to illuminate this point:

Let’s say you’re walking down the road one day, completely minding your own business, carrying a gold coin held tightly in each fist because they’re the only gold coins you’ve ever had and you want to keep them safe. And, as you’re walking down the road, minding your own business, you happen to meet the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow, sitting by his pot of gold.

He says, in his best Lucky Charms voice: “Good day to you! Dip your hands into this here cauldron of shining gold coins and you can keep whatever you can hold.”

Now is the moment of decision for you.

Do you hold tightly to the two gold coins you have – hey, they’re a sure thing! – and try to scoop with closed fists? How much gold do you think you can gather when your hands are closed?

Or, do you open your fists – maybe losing your two precious gold coins – so you can use your open hands to gather as much as you could manage?

I know myself and I know that I would, without hesitation, make my hands as big as they could be and attempt to scoop up twenty or thirty gold pieces – even if I ended up losing the two I came in with. This is probably why I’ve been able to keep my business running since 1997 – I have a high tolerance for risk and for not knowing how things will turn out.

[The truth is I generally assume things are going to turn out all right and you know what? They almost always do.]

However, if you have a high need for certainty, control, comfort – well, you might just tip your hat to the leprechaun and keep walking down the road. Because, for you, the assurance of your two gold coins matters more than the risk of losing them.

And this is where people get stuck. The proverbial bird in the hand. The demon you know. The at-least-I-know-what-to-expect.

The comfortable.

For all of us, though, there are times when the comfortable becomes uncomfortable. When the demon you know becomes a demon who’s destroying you. When the bird in your hand flies away. When the rules change abruptly or no longer apply.

And those are the moments when you have to – must – let go.

It’s so hard. It can change your definition of yourself. It can hurt.

But to become unstuck – to be happy and fulfilled – you must let go of those two gold coins you’ve been clutching in your tight little fists for so long, and begin to claim the treasure that’s being offered you.

Phew. I’m just back from a wonderful week in Stockholm visiting my dear daughter, Grace, who’s studying at the Stockholm School of Economics this semester.

It’s a long trip from Washington, DC to Stockholm – almost nine hours by air – so I loaded my Kindle with a couple of books and a Great Courses program on Herodotus (which seemed really appealing when I bought it…).

If you haven’t read this one yet, put it on your list. You won’t regret it.

The idea is simple – put these two spiritual leaders in a room for a week and have them talk about joy. What is it? What gets between humans and joy? What can we do to get more joy in our lives? Writer Douglas Abrams asked the questions and compiled the answers into an engaging and provoking book. I highlighted so many wonderful passages I nearly wore out my index finger. Here are a couple that might resonate for you:

“‘We are meant to live in joy,’ the Archbishop explained. ‘This does not mean that life will be easy or painless. It means that we can turn our faces to the wind and accept that this is the storm we must pass through.'”

“As the Dalai Lama has described it, if we see a person who is being crushed by a rock, the goal is not to get under the rock and feel what they are feeling; it is to help to remove the rock.”

“The only thing that will bring happiness is affection and warmheartedness.”

“If you have genuine kindess or compassion, then when someone gets something or has more success you are able to rejoice in their good fortune.”

“Deep down we grow in kindness when our kindness is tested.”

“God uses each of us in our own way, and even if you are not the best one, you may be the one who is needed or the one who is there.”

And, “When we accept what is happening now, we can be curious about what might happen next.”

My trip to Stockholm was pure joy, my friends. Being with my daughter, seeing the city through her eyes, learning about a new culture – it was a delight of discovery and connection. And with the words of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and The Dalai Lama frontmost in my mind, I was open to the light of joyfulness that was right there for me.

Which is precisely what these two Nobel Peace Prize winners – and dear friends to each other – are teaching through their new book.

Joy is found by being present where you are. By coming to terms with how life is. By showing kindness and compassion. By being open to other perspectives, and to changing your own mind.

They say, “True joy is a way of being, not a fleeting emotion.” To which I say, “Yes. Wholeheartedly, unreservedly, yes.”

If you worry that your life has too little joy, read this book.

If you can’t figure out how to be more joyful, read this book.

If you fret that our world is becoming a joyless place, read this book.

If you want to change your way of being to become more joyful, read this book.

If you want to nourish your soul, well, you will find a soulfeast when you read this book.

Books, movies, poems, songs and numerous stand-up acts have been based on Joseph Campbell’s remarkable work on The Hero’s Journey. And rightly so. Campbell’s intensive study of the hero lore of many cultures uncovered a similar theme – a monomyth – recurring regardless of time and place.

It’s brilliant.

And it’s also only about dudes.

In the monomyth uncovered by Campbell, women feature exactly twice: The Hero meets a Goddess who inspires him, and then he meets a Temptress who, well, tempts him. The rest of the time, he’s a guy on a quest sometimes accompanied by other guys.

I had taken a stab at examining The Heroine’s Journey in a blog post I wrote back in 2014 – it was mostly about how we have a new female hero showing up in today’s literature and film, embodied by the character of Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games trilogy.

To really dig into the topic on a larger level, though, I had to do some thinking. I took out my journal and started writing to understand the similarities and the differences between a classic man’s experience and the hero’s journey of women I’ve know and read about.

I wondered where Campbell’s ideas intersected with what I’ve observed over my lifetime. The answer?

Not very often.

I had to refill the ink in my pen more than one time to get to the heart of the matter. And here’s what I think about a women’s hero’s journey. It starts like this: A woman is going along her merry way, doing whatever she’s doing. She might be stressed, she might not be. She might be rich, poor, old, young, whatever.

She’s living the life she’s living and then all of a sudden –

A crisis erupts. The floodwaters rise, the cow runs off, the husband runs off, the tornado’s a-coming, the rent needs to be paid, the boss is inappropriate, the nuclear reactor is leaking. Whatever it may look like, something bad happens.

And the first thing she does is try to fix the crisis. She mends and tends. She looks for solutions.

But there comes a time when she’s aware she can’t fix it – there’s no way it can be fixed at all – and has a moment of deep recognition that the only thing she can change is her idea about who she is and what she’s capable of doing.

Her identity shatters. Who she thought she was, and how she thought the world was – it’s all gone.

In the depths of her soul, she finally asks who she wants to be.

She embarks on a period of trial and error to find this new self.

In the course of her quest, she forms a tribe. These are women, men, children, animals who support her as she figures out who she really is.

She has experiences. She’s growing more and more conscious. She learns.

One day she has fresh awareness: She feels like herself. A new self.

A new crisis comes up, and she handles this one very differently. This new crisis allows her to see just how strong she is.

She has created a new life.

And the people in her tribe are safe. She can live happily and contentedly, thoroughly aware of her strength and resilience.

Women – does this in any way resonate? Clarify things for you? Give you hope that there is a path through any difficulty?

Now to the men who are reading these words – why does this matter for you? If you love a woman, or are father to a girl, and you want to be a part of her tribe, recognize that her journey toward a heroic life may be significantly different from the male hero’s journey you’ve been saturated in since birth. This may be why sometimes you don’t understand why the women in your life don’t seem to value what you value, or organize their lives the way you organize yours.

Because a man’s journey – according to Campbell – is an external adventure, full of battles where you can prove yourself.

And a woman’s journey – according to me – is an internal adventure, full of the kinds of moments which allow a woman rise up and know herself deeply.

Neither is right. Neither is wrong.

We prosper as human beings, though, when we respect and support the necessary paths each of us must walk to live our own heroic lives.

I wrote this on the ten year anniversary of 9/11, and re-reading again this year, the fifteenth anniversary, seems appropriate to read it again, this year.

I was feeling rather smug that morning.

I stood on the tee box of the seventh hole, under the bluest sky I’d seen in some time, the crisp early fall air like a tonic in my lungs. And I was playing my brains out – 2 strokes over par after the first six holes of a nine hole golf tournament.

I was even nervously allowing myself to think, “I could win this thing!”

I stood on the tee box in the casual pose I’d seen pro golfers strike, arm on hip, hand on the end of the club, leg crossed over. I posed like a woman who was going to win, baby.But then I saw something. Coming over the ridge, a golf cart. I squinted. It was the young golf pro, and she was barreling directly for me. She screeched to a halt and breathlessly said, “Mrs. Woodward, you have to come in. Your husband called.” She must have read something on my face, because she quickly added, “Your kids are fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s just that both World Trade Towers in New York have collapsed, there’s a bomb at the Pentagon, there’s a bomb at the State Department and something up at the Capitol.” Panic started to well up inside me. “Your husband wants you to get the kids and go home.” I nodded, processing it all, and threw my bag on the back of her cart and we sped off. My playing partner stepped out of the porta-potty just in time to hear me say, “I concede. I have to go.”

And I didn’t think about golf again for a very long time.

It took well over an hour to drive the six miles home. I picked up the kids – confused, frightened – on the way. During those gridlocked minutes in the car, I felt like a sitting duck. The local all-news radio station was reporting on fighter planes scrambling, and commercial planes landing. They also reported that there was one more plane, on the way to The White House.

The White House, where I had worked, and where so many friends were working that day.

Crossing the Chain Bridge, I glanced to my left and saw a column of black smoke streaming over the tree tops. The Pentagon burning.

I could smell it.

It was surreal.

Our house is about a quarter of a mile from the Potomac River. Between the house and the river is the busy and noisy George Washington Parkway, which is traveled by 80,000 people every day. Usually, the hum of the cars whizzing past creates a gentle susurrus that can be as comforting as sitting by the ocean. And we also live under the flight path for Reagan National Airport, and the steady rumble of landing and taking off every six minutes is a part of the environment. It’s a noisy place.

But that morning, under the bluest sky, I stood in my front yard and heard… nothing. No traffic. No planes. Nothing. I held my arms out, as if I could embrace the world and share our pain, when I heard the first one. One deep tone. Then another. The National Cathedral had begun tolling its bells. Then the bells from other churches began to ring. Mournful, yes. But hope, too, in each tone. Hope. Hope. Hope.

I stood there, barefoot, broken-hearted, on one of the most beautiful days of the year. Worried. What could possibly come next?

I did an inventory: I had a husband I loved, I had great kids I could parent full-time. I had my family, my friends. We were blessed. We were safe. We were going to be okay.

That’s what it looked like under the bluest sky. But the reality of the next ten years proved to be quite different than I ever could have imagined.If a visitor from the future had told me, that morning out on my front lawn, that in the next ten years:

I would divorce the man whose ring I wore on September 11, 2001, after learning some hard truths.

He would move away, remarry and start a new family.

I would be a single parent.

I would give up being a full-time mom and go back to work.

I would be diagnosed with cancer.

I would struggle financially.

Family and dear friends would die unexpectedly, some painfully.

My children would face challenges which would stop us in our tracks.

If the future visitor told me all that on September 11, 2001, I would have said, “You have to be kidding. It can’t possibly go that way.”

But if that visitor was telling the truth, he’d also have had to tell me the fantastic parts of the coming years:

That I would be known as a writer, with blogs and books.

That I would work with people all over the world – from Asia to Europe, from Canada to Mexico, from Alaska to The Keys – and help them find more fulfilling work, and meaningful lives.

That I’d meet strangers who would grow dear to my heart.

That a certain 8-year old third grader would become a happy, thoughtful, kind, six foot tall college man with a thriving business he created from scratch.

That a little kindergartner would grow into a willowy high school athlete who studies Latin and history, and never forgets a friend.

That I would fund my own retirement account.

That I would own my resilience, know myself and grow comfortable in my own skin.

If the visitor from the future had told me under the bluest sky that I would grow to be more myself – more happy, centered and creative – than I’ve ever been, I would have said, “Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Because I hadn’t a clue on September 11, 2001. I thought I was happy. What could possibly change?

Only everything.

And always for the better, I’ve learned. No matter how it seems in the moment.

Looking forward the next 10 years, to September 11, 2021, what will happen? What change will I meet, and how will I handle it?

I have no idea. None. But I do know this: I am not afraid.

Because even all the pain of the last ten years has been exponentially outweighed by all the love. By all the connections. By all the growth. By all the learning.

On September 11, 2001, three thousand people lost their lives. They had no chance to experience the last ten years of living. But we did. We still do.

Don’t you think we owe it to them to embrace whatever it is that’s coming? And embrace it with love? With kindness? With creativity?

Yes, we do. And I will. I will live with my feet in the grass under skies both blue and gray, and remember the sound of bells tolling, hope, hope, hope.

Philando Castile. Alton Sterling. A therapist trying to help an autistic man.

It seems trivial and superficial for me to write about How To Be Yourself when the US is facing one of the most consequential elections in history. When the UK deals with Brexit. When Turkey has a coup.

I’ve been over here gawping for air like a fish washed up on the shore, people.

Then I remembered my four words for 2016: Real. Presence. Generous. Opportunities.

I’m not being very real or generous by staying silent. I don’t have a presence if I’m not here.

I’m not using the opportunities I have to say the things that might help you (and me) cope through these difficult days.

So, I’m going to try. Let me tell you a story.

About ten years ago – it was a Friday night in January – I was home with my sick son. We heard a loud bang and then smelled the acrid scent of burning electrical wiring. If you’ve ever smelled it, you never forget it.

I ran to every room in the house, trying to figure out what had happened. As I careened down the steps to the basement, I saw thick, white smoke hanging from the ceiling. Not good. Threw open the door to the room where the HVAC system and circuit breaker box is located, and smoke was two feet thick there. I grabbed the phone, dialed 911, took my son by the hand and quickly left the house.

My next-door-neighbor had invited me for wine earlier, which I had declined because my son was sick and I didn’t want him to feel puny and all alone. When I knocked on her door, she was delighted. “You can have wine!” I said, “No. Hear those sirens in the distance? They’re coming to my house.” I explained the situation, she took my son in hand and I went to meet the fire trucks.

Nine of them.

The feeling in the pit of your stomach when firefighters with axes prepare to enter your home is like nothing you can imagine. And seeing the hoses uncoiled, ready to soak your house is both encouraging and terrifying.

The red lights were turning, the fire chief in his white hat was talking with me, and my heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon.

After they had inspected the house, determined that the circuit breaker board had exploded (thankfully, it’s mounted on a cinder block wall or else those hoses and axes might have had to have been used), and turned off all power to the house, the most extraordinary thing happened.

My neighbors started coming.

First, the close in neighbors who I know well, asking if I needed anything. It was January, after all. Did we have a place to stay?

Then, the farther out neighbors. Elderly neighbors. Young neighbors. Could they pitch in? Did I need anything? Did the kids need anything?

Folks walked up the hill, and around the corner. Not looky-loos, but people who wanted to help. Who were ready to help.

It was so kind, and made me feel so connected and cared for. I wasn’t all by myself dealing with a catastrophe – I was part of a community who was looking out for one of its own.

And this is what we need to remember during these trying times.

When we feel like we’re all alone and there’s nothing we can do – there’s always something we can do.

Because when neighbors help neighbors, communities thrive. When communities thrive, nations thrive.

And when your neighborhood extends to those you don’t know, who don’t look like you, whose life experiences are different from yours, who think differently, who are in need…the planet thrives.

So, let’s all be a community, shall we? Let’s be kind to one another and find ways to connect and help.

There’s a lot coming at all of us these days, sugars, and the only way to get past it is to get through it. Together.